"No." But he didn't sound too sure.
Joe didn't care. He knew from experience what Jaime Wagner's path was likely to be. Playing head games with him wasn't going to cost Joe any sleep. He therefore walked the youngster down the hallway and, just prior to opening another door near the end, asked him, "So, here's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Is this John Moser?"
He knocked quickly and opened the door to reveal Willy Kunkle standing to one side of a small room, and Moser sitting in a chair, looking worried and straight at them.
"Yeah," Jaime confirmed, "That's him."
Joe closed the door and escorted Wagner outside.
"Uh-oh," Willy said to a surprised John Moser, who was still staring at the closed door. "That wasn't good. I forgot to mention we'd been grilling your little pal."
He placed his hand against his cheek thoughtfully. "Damn-now, on top of all the forensics, we got a witness. Too bad, John. Looks like you been tagged."
Moser was looking glum.
Willy had his hand on the doorknob when he paused, and added, "Unless, you have something that might smooth things out a little…"
Twenty minutes later, Willy Kunkle joined Joe in the VBI office. "I didn't know they still made 'em that dumb."
"You got what we're after?" Joe asked, looking up from what he'd been reading.
Kunkle sat down and rested his feet on Joe's desk. "And then some. The stupid bastard gave me stuff I didn't even know about. That's what took me so long. I had to give it all to Ron: dope deals, B-and-Es, a few smash-and-grabs. They ought to be able to get half a dozen busts out of it. Very sweet."
"And the gun?" Joe asked.
Willy smiled. "Oh, yeah. Moser sold it to Matt Purvis for seventy-five bucks. He paid twenty and some Ecstasy for it to one Derek Beauchamp, who said he found it under a floor he was sanding on some recent Yuppie rehab project."
He contentedly patted his chest with his hand. "Sometimes this job doesn't totally suck."
Chapter 9
Hi. It's me."
Joe smiled at the phone, relief washing over him.
"Hey, Gail. How're you doing?"
He heard her sigh. "There's a question. You free right now?"
He was standing in his woodworking shop, a place he often retreated to when he needed extraction from the outside world. "It'll probably break some bluebird's heart to hear it, but yeah, I'm free. Where are you?"
Her voice was surprised. "You're building a birdhouse?"
"It's for my mother."
"That's sweet, Joe. I'm sorry I'm interrupting."
"Don't be. You sound like you're on a cell phone." He was slightly disappointed by that, suspecting that she was probably calling on the way to some official function.
"I am," she admitted. "I'm in your driveway."
He put down the block of wood he'd been holding and crossed to a window overlooking the front of his small rental property, actually a carriage house tucked behind a huge Victorian monster fronting Green Street. He saw Gail's car behind his own, her parking lights still on.
He waved at her through the window. "You want to keep talking like this, or would you like to come in?"
In answer, she blew him a kiss through the windshield and killed the engine.
He met her at the front door, having crossed the living room from the shop. They didn't say anything but embraced instead, surrendering to mutually shared lost time and frayed emotions.
Afterward, Gail pulled back just enough to say, "Damn, I was hoping I'd get to do that tonight."
He kissed her again, very aware of their bodies together, and feeling her hands running up and down his back.
"Can you stay awhile?" he asked, mumbling against her lips.
"All night," she answered, sliding one hand up under his shirt.
He nuzzled her neck and began lifting her sweater up over her head.
"Are you playing hooky?" he asked her later as they lay side by side in bed.
She curled one leg over his, her hand on his chest. "Oh, you bet. They'll survive one night on their own. After a while, everyone starts thinking the slightest detail will sink the entire campaign. There's no sense of proportion left."
"How do you think it's going?"
"Hard to tell," she said, her head finding a comfortable spot in the crook of his shoulder. "I'm so surrounded by enthusiasts, half of them convinced I'll fall apart at the first mention of bad news, that I'm having a hell of a time figuring out what the truth is. Susan's a brick, natch, but even she has an agenda. They all just want me to press the flesh and raise money."
"Ugh," Joe said. "That's gotta be fun."
"The pressing isn't bad. People are looking for hope. I'm happy to give them that. Fund-raising you can keep. The bigger the cats, the more obsequious they expect you to be."
"You need the money that badly?"
It was a pertinent question. Not only was Gail wealthy by birth, but she'd made a lot of money in real estate after retiring as a hippie, now quite a long time ago.
She didn't take offense. "I could fund it myself, but that would send exactly the wrong message, especially with Parker and the Republicans using Tom Bander as their personal J. P. Morgan."
"What's Bander's deal, anyway?" Joe asked. "Leo brought him up, and I didn't have a clue, aside from the money thing."
"Just a rich guy," she answered vaguely before pausing to add, "Actually, I don't really know. I met him at a ribbon cutting years ago-didn't make much of an impression. I didn't even know he was into politics until he came out for Parker. The grapevine has it that he keeps a low profile, gets really good people to do his deals for him, and basically reaps the benefits. Susan thinks he's backing Parker because he wants to step out a little-maybe join the mainstream now that he's made his bundle.
"Which is exactly why I can't be put in the same boat," she continued, back on track. "I've got to go out and raise money by tens and twenties. My own wealth is a liability, especially since right now I'm only running against fellow Democrats. That's the irony-it's members of my own party I have to playact for. Assuming I win the primary, it'll be much less dicey, even if it's a tougher race-what my handlers don't want me to know is that word on the street is, this whole thing is Parker's to lose."
She raised her head and looked at him. "You wouldn't be willing to help me out there, would you? Call on some of your buddies-tell them I'm not the Wicked Witch of the Far Left?"
"Sure," he said quickly, but he was instantly uncomfortable with the idea, even resentful. She knew that politics was something he worked to avoid. Now he'd been put between a rock and a hard place, having to lobby colleagues who were already leery about his new role with the VBI. It was going to be goddamned awkward, and he was angry at himself for not having said so immediately.
She seemed to sense his reservations without wanting to take him off the hook. She added, "It wouldn't be a lie. I know your guys can't stand all the environmental and education stuff, but you can assure them I'd be in their corner on law enforcement. I am an ex-prosecutor, after all."
He grunted assent, but was remembering that the "ex-" part of that had to do with her locking horns with her boss, the local state's attorney. The man was never happier than when she left.
"Maybe the Dover and Wilmington chiefs, some people at the police unions. That wouldn't put you in a bind, would it?"
Again, the opportunity to bow out. Again, ignored.
"No. I can do that."
She snuggled in again, kissing his chin. "God, it's nice being here."
He wished he could agree. But all he felt now was foolish.
Joe took Lester Spinney with him to interview Derek Beauchamp. The fourth and last member of Joe's squad, Lester was cranelike in appearance, the unit's sole family man, the only one to have come to them from the state police, and unique for his quiet, laid-back demeanor. It was this latter characteristic that had made him Joe's choice for this outing.